Prayer for the Dying
A volley of blue-suited men sit around a campfire. They are there to share in the spirits of comradery, and despite this they bring with them assault rifles and fragmentation grenades. One has mace. That part isn't important. "Brotherhood, something or other's. Urm, let's call them brotherhood trips. Apparently this is an annual thing for newbies. I believe he described it as, 'AA without the self-righteousness or the...' well, he said something that sounded like "goi-yimshit" which I don't know the meaning of." "Maybe it's Navajo?" one of the blue-suited men asks, "Could be some sort of like, Native American spiritual thing?" "Not likely," another perks up. "I'm Navajo myself, not a word I recognize." "Really? I've never met a Native American. You seem pretty... I mean, no offense but you don't look..." "Hahaha, yeah I know, I'm blindingly white. But I'm from a Native American family. We're pretty traditional, fried bread, jean jackets, you know the shtick." "...I don't, really, but that's interesting. You got any stories? Any Cherokee princesses in the bloodline—" Suddenly elbowed by the man to his left, the speaker briefly cusses before returning to his seated position, half-assing an apology before grabbing his canteen and taking a swig of the acidic broth within. "Uh-huh, yeah a few. Didn't exactly have an ancient, half-blind grandmother who sat 'neath a dreamcatcher spinning cryptic stories, but we did learn a thing or two growing up just through... cultural osmosis, I guess you could call it. There's stuff like, Sasquatch, run of the mill shit, then you'd get weird stuff like the Nimeriger, who were ancient people living in the mountains, and uh... oh! The Tsiatko, which were like, giant hairy monsters that would whistle and eat people." "Charming." yet another spoke. "Still, pretty neat... uh, what was your name?" Suddenly sitting straight, bending over the fire with a puckered lip, "My name... Walking By River, the Old One." Wide eyes met him, astonished gaze, before finally the silence was broken by the one who the one who's question had brought such a startling revelation. "R...really?" Falling backwards, bellowing laughter, the Diné spoke, or yelled rather, "No, you friggin' dumbass! Hahaha, my name's Dennis." Chuckles resounded. "Well, Dennis, my name's Claude. And I was going to say, pretty neat. The only folklore I can offer is, when I was little, my ma' told me there was a snail that lived in my nose that'd bite my finger off if I kept picking it." "Yikes. That's um... creative." Dennis responded. "Not gonna lie, that screwed me up for a while. Urgh, pass the cask'... um?" "Joel.", said the one still generously sipping the winey concoction, "Here." The wineskin was passed and hearty gulps were had. Sensing an awkward silence, one of the blue men belted out, "My name's Rob, in case anyone was wondering. I think your name was... Michael, you said?" "Yessir, Michael. Weird how we all sat down here without knowing each others names." the last one crooned. Another silence. Finally, Joel slaps his knees. "Fuck it, ghost stories," he points to Rob and says, "Go." Rob scroffs, "I ain't got a ghost story. We ain't around a campfire by choice, bub." "Say ain't three more times in your sentence, I might get the picture." Joel snaps back. "Can't help it, 'twas just the... vernacular~ with which I was exposed to as a young lad. Pass the juice." Rob mustered, before snatching the mug. He takes a swig and gags, "What the he— what is this? What's in this flask?" Claude looks out quizzically, "Spirits, it's wine. Or... liquer? I'm not 100% sure. Either way, I thought it was alright." He briefly looks around, seeking some concurrance from those around him, although they evidently didn't pick up on it and only stared at him. "What the fuck are we doing out here?" Joel cried, falling backward and laying flat on the grass. "I mean, I read a few stories I could probably like, recount, if that helps." Michael peeped, the only response being groans. He threw up his arms, "Okay, okay, I tried. Pass the swig." The bottle was passed yet again before Joel shot up, grabbed the cup, and began to chug it wildly. Rob shouted at him and Dennis whistled encouragingly, before Joel tore the pitcher away from his own face, splashing some liquid about before collecting himself. "S-s-sorry I... WEW! I just... remembered a good story to tell. But I needed to be hammered. It- it'll add to the story." Dennis snatched the mug, checking its weight to ensure a decent amount of alcohol remained, dismissively groaning, "Uh-huh, you better pray this story's a doozy, else the only thing we'll be hearing tonight is your fuckin' eulogy." "Easy! Easy now." Joel half-danced before slumping down, his face already beat-red and sweat already beginning to pepper his forehead. "Ahem!" "When I was a wee lad, I lived in a city called Boston. Ever heard of it? Don't care, on NW 38th Street in this small town called Boston, the Salvation Army had an emergency shelter. A bunch of kids used to hang out with the homeless children there, listen to their stories. And let me tell you, these kids were beat up, fucked up, messed up, every kind of 'up', so they had a lot of stories. The most famous ones were the stories about the angels." "They used to-*hic*-say shit like, like, like how the angels used to eat light to fly. I can imagine why, neon'd be a pretty calming sight for a bunch of homeless kids," Joel sat up, "They used to talk about how much killin' there was on the streets o' Boston, even if they never could go outside they somehow knew I guess. To survive, you needed to learn about the secret stories. Because, you see... on Christmas Night in 1997, demons attacked the gates of Heaven." "Fuckin' what??" Claude groaned. "You're drunk, stop talkin' shit." "NO NO NO SH-shut up, this is where the story gets good." Joel insisted. "Okay, the story goes God fled Heaven to escape the demon attack. The demons smashed to dust his palace of beautiful blue-moon marble. TV news kept it secret, but homeless children across the country reported being awakened from troubled sleep and alerted by dead relatives. No one knows why God has never reappeared. In any event, the defense of Earth was laid upon the shoudlers of angels. Demons soon found ways to enter our world. Empty fridges, cemeteries, Chevrolet Luminas with black tinted windows. They'd weep bloody black tears from their ghoulish empty sockets, and feed on children's terror. If you wake at night and see them, with clothes blowing back, even in a room where there is no wind, you know they've marked you for killing. But they had a light in their darkness. They called her the Lady. Chained in the depths of the Missouri by a demonic spell only granting power to those knowing her true name, Wonderful. If you and your friends were on a corner when a car came for a drive-by, and only one child yells out her true name, all'd be safe. Even if bullets are tearing your skin, the Lady makes them fall on the ground and tell you to hang on." Joel started cackling drunkenly. The drink had been put away, probably for the night after this display. "On that note," Dennis spoke, "let's stop telling stories. So, Michael, where're you from?" And so the conversation steered away, Joel flopped back onto his back, still laughing just as loud. Amidst his crazed, drunken giggles, he'd occasionally stammer, "and I've seen her!" to which a round of dismissive "Me too"s would ripple through the small circle of initiates, 'til the drink had finally put him to sleep.